


Only a Soldier can Fulfill a Twink

by Tsundere_Icecream



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:41:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14561097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsundere_Icecream/pseuds/Tsundere_Icecream





	Only a Soldier can Fulfill a Twink

Sometimes Sherlock can't even get over how lucky he is.

 

He's got not quite half the hunky soldier's great big bull cock shoved up his ass and he already feels like he's going to pass out from the fullness.

“LOOK AT YOU, MY GORGEOUS HUNK,” JDKSF JDKSL

Because he’s a little bottom and bossy as fuck he’s fisting Ben’s hair tightly and baring that long, gorgeous neck—so he can bite down—and mutter all the filthy things into the curve of Bens neck where throat meets shoulder.

“Gorgeous beast you are,” he rasps over the sweaty skin, mouth sucking redpurple bruises into all that that white. “My big hunk with his big cock up my arse—”

“Oh, God,” Ben heaves out from beneath him, a deep rumble Martin feels like a vibration in his chest—they’re pressed together there, just a little, his more generous chest hair scraping over Ben’s sparser ones, catching on those tight pink nipples and  _rubbing_  until Ben has his arse in his hands, the entirety of Martin’s arse in his huge, large hunk hands, the flesh of his cheeks encompassed completely in those long fingers—and he’s pulling Martin towards himself in helpless little shoves, a little inept and jerky, almost derailing Martin’s rhythm completely…

but he’s so lovely like this, so lovely. Martin stares up at him—because even kneeling astride Ben on the bed he’s the shorter one of the two of them—and his big man is gaping open-mouthed and slack-jawed and bright-eyed down at him as if Martin is the sun. it’s what Martin feels like: Ben consumes him so completely he almost sucks him dry, but not today. today, he needs to guide ben, who is almost completely gone already with his pretty prick up Martin’s arse.

god, he loves that. sitting on top of his big man and domineering him, guiding him, steering him. it’s what he’s made for. Ben is so helpless, so beautiful—so needy. so so needy.

Ben pulls Martin forward with his hands on his arse, the helplessness coming on a bit too strongly because on the next shove their hips aren’t aligned anymore and Ben almost pops out. with one hand free Martin grips back and just saves Ben’s cock from slipping out completely, holding that hot, wet length in his small fist, keeping his hips raised and his arse poised just so—-Ben’s cockhead is nearly slipping out, Martin can feel the glans prying his used tight hole apart, and oh god he wants that in his  _throat_ —-

and Ben whinges, “Martin,” a deep low vibration that is offset with his helplessly jerking hips—and so Martin fists his hair and  _yanks_  his head back, a harsh pull backwards, and Ben gasps wetly, mouth gaping open wider even more, and could Jesus Christ when they’re done with this Martin is gonna climb this beautiful hunk of his, stuff his cock down that big, delicate mouth until he’s coming down that long throat and all over those great cheekbones….

“Come on big man,” he taunts, voice low-deep, but so breathy his “on” is more like a “hhhhhhooon”—he’s blissful, with a pretty cock between his arse and tight bollocks slapping his cheeks: his bliss is always so damn breathy, fuck—

“Come on,” he snarls, again, can’t help the challenge in his throat as he lowers his hips and feels the cockhead pop through that right ring of muscle—and Ben makes a lost, little, “o-oooh,” and Martin grins just slightly, the corners of his mouth tilted up just so, when he feels those gorgeous big hands twitch on his arse, pulling his cheeks apart further and making him really—feel—the–s t r e t c h—-all those inches of hot erect cock sinking i n s i d e—-

—and just when Ben’s full tight balls sit at his hole, with Ben skewering him open, jabbed so deeply up inside him, Martin releases his hold on his hair, just a bit. just a bit.

Ben’s forehead creases again, slightly, as the taut skin is allowed to relax. He’s breathing like a bull. his eyes are bright, his mouth plump-sore, his shoulders broad, his biceps so, so delectably strong.

his chest is heaving. his stomach is twitching. his thighs underneath martin’s are strong, and bulky, so much bulkier than Martin’s own ones. he’s stronger than martin. he could pin him down and mount him and fold him in half and have him, all cock and pounding and hoarse grunting, if he wanted to.

but instead he is still beneath Martin, lets Martin play with him as he wishes, because he’s such a gentleman; such a pretty, elegant, gentlemanly hunk. god, Martin wants to ruin him, wants to  _wreck_  him. he’s his. this big man, with his huge hands and satin dark voice and broad shoulders and strong hips—all Martin’s.

his favourite little toy. well—not little. not little at all.

martin’s right brow presses down; the left one arches. he feels unmoored with how much he wants this man. his big man: his hunk. his beautiful, gentleman hunk. oh, Jesus christ.

“  _hhh_ ooooh,” he breathes when he twists his hips just so, breathy voice going high from the insane bliss of an arse full of such pretty cock. “oh, benny…”

Ben groans underneath him, in aggravation and exasperation, but he isn’t moving an inch. Martin still has him by the hair while the other fist is cupping his balls, a tight relentless grip, and they just stare at one another, wild-eyed and breathless.

“I—i hate that name,” Ben admits in a rush of low slurred voice. “and you know—”

“oh baby I know,” Martin coos and leans foward to offer one obscenely chaste, gentle kiss onto one impossible cheekbone. he tugs teasingly at Bens hair and then lets go, squeezes his handsome balls a last time before he cups Bens face in his shaky hands. “baby, darling, I know you hate it. ’s why I do it.”

Ben bares his teeth at Martin but stays so gentle even as his stomach keeps twitching and his chest keeps heaving. he’s a wonderful sight: hair soaked in sweat, a lone curl dangling over his sweaty forehead, his chest glistening with exertion. Martin eyes that chest, the luxurious breadth of it, that  _biceps_ , those muscled, firm upper arms….

Bens hands on Martins cheeks flex. Martin’s left eyebrow arches further, as if to say:  _ah, dear, my darling boy, are you quite sure you wanna do this?_

Ben knows him best. he doesn’t do it. he glares up at Martin meekly, teeth bared in a non-dangerous snarl, and Martin leans forward with a tight-lipped, crooked smirk. he curls the lone strand of fringe around his index- and middle finger, twirls it around.

“Benny boy,” he murmurs, all promise and heat and faux-tutting. “mmmh, let’s not today, shall we, sweetheart?”

with that, he gives a last tug of teeth on Bens lower lip, leans back—and with both hand on Bens broad, strong chest, shoves his hunk down and climbs him like a greedy little slut.

his hunk lies there, beautiful and pretty and wild, and doesn’t move an inch except to flex and flex and flex his twitching fingers around Martins little arse cheeks, the entireties of which he spans in just his palms, with the fingers curving inwards towards martin’s crack, thats how big his hands are—

and Martin wriggles backwards, chin raised and eyelids fluttering in rapid little blissful blinks at the ceiling, as his favourite toy knows what to do: with no further warning, just a deep pained groaned from beneath him, Ben sinks his left index- and middle finger  _inside_  beside his cock, jostling his own balls to the side so Martin can feel them sink inside—-

there’s a terribly wet  _squelch_ and another, breathy, needy, “  _hhhh_ aahh!” and Martin gasps wide-eyed at the ceiling, feels more than sees Ben throwing his head back and gritting his teeth—and oh god that neck will be strained with tendons jutting out tightly, Martin wants to bite along all of them—and when Bens fingers reach where his cock can’t reach, because it isn’t equally as  _flexible_ , Martin loses it.

he begins rambling: bends down and fists both hands in Bens hair and starts to pull at it helplessly, uselessly, babbling, entirely overcome, into Bens ear, “ooooh benny, ooh god, your cock, I love your cock, I love your fingers, I love how they—f-ffffuck—fuck me like—-  _that–_ ”

and Bens fingers crook, just the slightest bit, and Martin makes a high-pitched “a-ah!” that’s drowned out by Bens painful sounding deep “ooooh,” rumbled out.

Martin begins to cant his hips backwards in repetitive little circles, the same ones over and over and over again, tight little round swivels of his hips that press the pads of Bens fingers—those gorgeous, long,  _long_ fingers—right against his prostate, the round rough swells of them against the tender, sensitive spot inside him, like scratching an itch, like prodding a wound, again—and again—and again—

he keeps fucking himself like that on his pretty man toy, Ben whinging in his ridiculous deep baritone beneath him, his cock swelling and jabbing and  _jabbing,_  those balls bouncing, slapping obscenely, filthily, along with his knuckles prying open martin’s puffy, fucked open loose hole—

while Martin just bounces shallowly on his cock, barely rocking up and down anymore just circling his hips repetitively in the same motion, over—“hhhffffff”—-and over—“mmmhhhaaaah”—-and ohhhhver—

to feel those two fingers brushing his prostate while the hot, smooth head of Bens cock keeps glancing off it occasionally, sweet little hot stabs of pleasure—-

“you’re—hhhoooh—you’re my gorgeous hunk, benny, my big—my big man with his big cock up my—my tight arse,” Martin babbles out, and he swallows down an attack of hysterical laughter, because Jesus fucking Christ is he  _gone_  on that gorgeous cock.

he keeps tugging helplessly at ben’s hair with one hand while the other wanders down to stroke shaky fingers along the well-defined contours of ben’s trembling shoulders—down that broad chest—-to feel out his convulsing taut stomach—and he groans, “ffffhhhuck! your body—all those–mmmhh–mmmuscles, benny, oh, you hunk, benny—”

“Jesus christ,” Ben wheezes beneath him, and then the convulsing of his stomach comes faster, jerkier, and Martin realises that Ben is laughing helplessly right back into his ear, choked little rumbles he can’t seem to stop.

“I know,” Ben manages to say, heaving the words out, equal parts disbelief and mirth and lust in a mix only Ben could pull off. “I know. I got it—I’m your hunk—”

“yes,” Martin gasps, hysterically, pressing his forehead into ben’s bulging upper arm, chuckling away. “yes, you are—”

“that makes you my twink,” ben informs him in a low, amused rumble, his left hand massaging martin’s arse cheek gently while with his other he’s still two fingers deep up martin’s hole. “doesn’t it?”

“mmmh, yes,” Martin breathes, rubbing his cheek against ben’s upper arm, grinning in such a smitten, dumb way when he feels it flex beneath him. “and what do they say about hunks?”

Ben snorts, fondly. “I don’t know,” he says, faux-considering. “something like….”

he bundled his fingers together–twists them upwards—and jabs then mercilessly against martin’s prostate. Martin yelps, biting down into–oh, fuck—all tight muscle, and immediately shoves back onto that gorgeous combination of cock and fingers.

“…this?” ben finishes, amusement darker now, tainted by lust. “I’ve heard they fuck their twinks nice and good. hard and deep. I’ve heard….”

ben rasps his cheek over martin’s short hair, sighing out a blissful groan when he sinks his cock inside in a slow, relentless slide again.

“I’ve heard twinks are little sluts for their hunks,” Ben whispers. “are you?”

 

 

 

 

Because he’s a little bottom and bossy as fuck he’s fisting Ben’s hair tightly and baring that long, gorgeous neck—so he can bite down—and mutter all the filthy things into the curve of Bens neck where throat meets shoulder.

“Gorgeous beast you are,” he rasps over the sweaty skin, mouth sucking redpurple bruises into all that that white. “My big hunk with his big cock up my arse—”

“Oh, God,” Ben heaves out from beneath him, a deep rumble Martin feels like a vibration in his chest—they’re pressed together there, just a little, his more generous chest hair scraping over Ben’s sparser one, catching on those tight pink nipples and  _rubbing_  until Ben has his arse in his hands, the entirety of Martin’s arse in his huge, large hunk hands, the flesh of his cheeks encompassed completely in those long fingers—and he’s pulling Martin towards himself in helpless little shoves, a little inept and jerky, almost derailing Martin’s rhythm completely…

But he’s so lovely like this, so lovely. Martin stares up at him—because even kneeling astride Ben on the bed he’s the shorter one of the two of them—and his big man is gaping open-mouthed and slack-jawed and bright-eyed down at him as if Martin is the sun. It’s what Martin feels like: Ben consumes him so completely he almost sucks him dry, but not today. Today, he needs to guide ben, who is almost completely gone already with his pretty prick up Martin’s arse.

God, he loves that. Sitting on top of his big man and domineering him, guiding him, steering him. It’s what he’s made for. Ben is so helpless, so beautiful—so needy. So, so needy.

Ben pulls Martin forward with his hands on his arse, the helplessness coming on a bit too strongly because on the next shove their hips aren’t aligned anymore and Ben almost pops out. With one hand free Martin grips back and just saves Ben’s cock from slipping out completely, holding that hot, wet length in his small fist, keeping his hips raised and his arse poised just so—Ben’s cockhead is nearly slipping out, Martin can feel the glans prying his used tight hole apart, and oh god he wants that in his  _throat_ —

and Ben whinges, “Martin,” a deep low vibration that is offset with his helplessly jerking hips—and so Martin fists his hair and  _yanks_  his head back, a harsh pull backwards, and Ben gasps wetly, mouth gaping open wider even more, and Jesus Christ when they’re done with this Martin is gonna climb this beautiful hunk of his, stuff his cock down that big, delicate mouth until he’s coming down that long throat and all over those great cheekbones…

“Come on big man,” he taunts, voice low-deep, but so breathy his “on” is more like a “hhhhhhooon”—he’s blissful, with a pretty cock between his arse and tight bollocks slapping his cheeks: his bliss is always so damn breathy, fuck—

“Come on,” he snarls, again, can’t help the challenge in his throat as he lowers his hips and feels the cockhead pop through that right ring of muscle—and Ben makes a lost, little, “o-oooh,” and Martin grins just slightly, the corners of his mouth tilted up just so, when he feels those gorgeous big hands twitch on his arse, pulling his cheeks apart further and making him really—feel—the–s t r e t c h—-all those inches of hot erect cock sinking i n s i d e—

Just when Ben’s full tight balls sit at his hole, with Ben skewering him open, jabbed so deeply up inside him, Martin releases his hold on his hair, just a bit. Just a bit.

Ben’s forehead creases again, slightly, as the taut skin is allowed to relax. He’s breathing like a bull. His eyes are bright, his mouth plump-sore, his shoulders broad, his biceps so, so delectably strong.

His chest is heaving. His stomach is twitching. His thighs underneath Martin’s are strong, and bulky, so much bulkier than Martin’s own ones. He’s stronger than martin. He could pin him down and mount him and fold him in half and have him, all cock and pounding and hoarse grunting, if he wanted to.

But instead he is still beneath Martin, lets Martin play with him as he wishes, because he’s such a gentleman; such a pretty, elegant, gentlemanly hunk. God, Martin wants to ruin him, wants to  _wreck_  him. He’s his. This big man, with his huge hands and satin dark voice and broad shoulders and strong hips—all Martin’s.

His favourite little toy. Well—not little. Not little at all.

Martin’s right brow presses down; the left one arches. He feels unmoored with how much he wants this man. His big man: his hunk. His beautiful, gentleman hunk. Oh, Jesus christ.

“… _hhh_ ooooh,” he breathes when he twists his hips just so, breathy voice going high from the insane bliss of an arse full of such pretty cock. “Oh, benny…”

Ben groans underneath him, in aggravation and exasperation, but he isn’t moving an inch. Martin still has him by the hair while the other fist is cupping his balls, a tight relentless grip, and they just stare at one another, wild-eyed and breathless.

“I—I hate that name,” Ben admits in a rush of low slurred voice. “And you know—”

“Oh baby I know,” Martin coos and leans forward to offer one obscenely chaste, gentle kiss onto one impossible cheekbone. He tugs teasingly at Bens hair and then let’s go, squeezes his handsome balls a last time before he cups Bens face in his shaky hands. “Baby, darling, I know you hate it. ’S why I do it.”

Ben bares his teeth at Martin but stays so gentle even as his stomach keeps twitching and his chest keeps heaving. He’s a wonderful sight: hair soaked in sweat, a lone curl dangling over his sweaty forehead, his chest glistening with exertion. Martin eyes that chest, the luxurious breadth of it, that  _biceps_ , those muscled, firm upper arms….

Ben’s hands on Martins cheeks flex. Martin’s left eyebrow arches further, as if to say:  _ah, dear, my darling boy, are you quite sure you wanna do this?_

Ben knows him best. He doesn’t do it. He glares up at Martin meekly, teeth bared in a non-dangerous snarl, and Martin leans forward with a tight-lipped, crooked smirk. He curls the lone strand of fringe around his index- and middle finger, twirls it around.

“Benny boy,” he murmurs, all promise and heat and faux-tutting. “Mmmmh, let’s not today, shall we, sweetheart?”

With that, he gives a last tug of teeth on Ben’s lower lip, leans back—and with both hand on Ben’s broad, strong chest, shoves his hunk down and climbs him like a greedy little slut.

His hunk lies there, beautiful and pretty and wild, and doesn’t move an inch except to flex and flex and flex his twitching fingers around Martin’s smallish arse cheeks, the entireties of which he spans in just his palms, with the fingers curving inwards towards Martin’s crack, that’s how big his hands are—

Martin wriggles backwards, chin raised and eyelids fluttering in rapid little blissful blinks at the ceiling, as his favourite toy knows what to do: with no further warning, just a deep pained groaned from beneath him, Ben sinks his left index- and middle finger  _inside_  beside his cock, jostling his own balls to the side so Martin can feel them sink inside—

There’s a terribly wet  _squelch_ and another, breathy, needy, “ _Hhhh_ aahh!” and Martin gasps wide-eyed at the ceiling, feels more than sees Ben throwing his head back and gritting his teeth—and oh god that neck will be strained with tendons jutting out tightly, Martin wants to bite along all of them—and when Ben’s fingers reach where his cock can’t reach, because it isn’t equally as  _flexible_ , Martin loses it.

He begins rambling: bends down and fists both hands in Ben’s hair and starts to pull at it helplessly, uselessly, babbling, entirely overcome, into Ben’s ear, “Ooooh benny, ooh god, your cock, I love your cock, I love your fingers, I love how they—f-ffffuck—fuck me like— _that–_ ”

Ben’s fingers crook, just the slightest bit, and Martin makes a high-pitched “A-ah!” that’s drowned out by Bens painful sounding deep “Ooooh,” rumbled out.

Martin begins to cant his hips backwards in repetitive little circles, the same ones over and over and over again, tight little round swivels of his hips that press the pads of Ben’s fingers—those gorgeous, long,  _long_ fingers—right against his prostate, the round rough swells of them against the tender, sensitive spot inside him, like scratching an itch, like prodding a wound, again—and again—and again—

He keeps fucking himself like that on his pretty man toy, Ben whinging in his ridiculous deep baritone beneath him, his cock swelling and jabbing and  _jabbing,_  those balls bouncing, slapping obscenely, filthily, along with his knuckles prying open martin’s puffy, fucked open loose hole, while Martin just bounces shallowly on his cock, barely rocking up and down anymore just circling his hips repetitively in the same motion, over—“hhhffffff”—-and over—“mmmhhhaaaah”—and  _ohhhh_ ver—

To feel those two fingers brushing his prostate while the hot, smooth head of Ben’s cock keeps glancing off it occasionally, sweet little hot stabs of pleasure—

“You’re—hhhoooh—you’re my gorgeous hunk, Benny, my big—my big man with his big cock up my—my tight arse,” Martin babbles out, and he swallows down an attack of hysterical laughter, because Jesus fucking Christ is he  _gone_  on that gorgeous cock.

He keeps tugging helplessly at Ben’s hair with one hand while the other wanders down to stroke shaky fingers along the well-defined contours of Ben’s trembling shoulders—down that broad chest—-to feel out his convulsing taut stomach—and he groans, “Ffffhhhuck! Your body—all those–mmmhh–mmmuscles, Benny, oh, you hunk, Benny—”

“Jesus Christ,” Ben wheezes beneath him, and then the convulsing of his stomach comes faster, jerkier, and Martin realises that Ben is laughing helplessly right back into his ear, choked little rumbles he can’t seem to stop.

“I know,” Ben manages to say, heaving the words out, equal parts disbelief and mirth and lust in a mix only Ben could pull off. “I know. I got it—I’m your hunk—”

“Yes,” Martin gasps, hysterically, pressing his forehead into Ben’s bulging upper arm, chuckling away. “Yes, you are—”

“That makes you my twink,” Ben informs him in a low, amused rumble, his left hand massaging Martin’s arse cheek gently while with his other he’s still two fingers deep up Martin’s hole. “doesn’t it?”

“Mmmh, yes,” Martin breathes, rubbing his cheek against Men’s upper arm, grinning in such a smitten, dumb way when he feels it flex beneath him. “And what do they say about hunks?”

Ben snorts, fondly. “I don’t know,” he says, faux-considering. “Something like….”

He bundles his fingers together—twists them upwards—and jabs then mercilessly against Martin’s prostate. Martin yelps, biting down into—oh, fuck—all tight muscle, and immediately shoves back onto that gorgeous combination of cock and fingers.

“…this?” Ben finishes, amusement darker now, tainted by lust. “I’ve heard they fuck their twinks nice and good. Hard and deep. I’ve heard….”

Ben rasps his cheek over martin’s short hair, sighing out a blissful groan when he sinks his cock inside in a slow, relentless slide again.

“I’ve heard twinks are little sluts for their hunks,” Ben whispers. “Are you?”

 

 

 


End file.
